


i hope we both die

by Valleyflower



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Season/Series 05, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valleyflower/pseuds/Valleyflower
Summary: Angel finds a dust-covered CD in his car, and hears a voice he never thought he'd hear again for one last time.
Relationships: Angel (BtVS)/Lorne | Krevlornswath
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	i hope we both die

**Author's Note:**

> angst. god i love writing angst. especially any angst involving lorne. hope yall enjoy :)  
> song- no children by the mountain goats

Angel was clearing out his old car when a CD case fell out of the glove compartment. Huh. That was odd, he swore that he'd gotten all of his music out of here near two years ago, when the big battle against the Senior Partners had been won. He picked up the case and saw that all it had for a cover was a white piece of paper with writing on. The writing was slightly messy block capitals, dated to..well, this was even more odd. The day before that exact battle. Some part of him recognised that writing, but it was the part he pushed deep, deep down and only let up on nights that he found alcohol strong enough to numb it. And that wasn't now, although it might be later. For now, he stuffed the case in his pocket and carried on cleaning. 

It was that time of late-night that Angel had claimed as his own a long time ago. Just him, a strong drink, and the CD player that seldom saw songs other than Barry Manilow. He pressed the play button and sat down, looking out of the small window as a piano melody wound round the room. It sounded angry, and the bitter words that joined it only added.   


_ "I hope that our few remaining friends _  
_Give up on trying to save us…"_  
  


That ever-indistinguishable accent, usually smooth as honey on every note. This time, the only word Angel could think of to describe it was jagged. Full of pain and hopelessness.   
__

_ "And I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away _  
_ And I never come back to this town again"  _  


This must have been recorded on the day Angel had sent the team to spend those hours like they were their last. He'd never asked anyone where they'd gone. That was their business, and he only knew where Gunn and Wes had gone because Annie and Illyria, respectively, had told the few remaining members about the events of that day. Spike had never told, and he'd never seen Lorne to ask. The quiet, resigned betrayal in those crimson eyes had been permanently burned into his mind.   
__

_ "And I hope when you think of me years down the line _  
_ You can't find one good thing to say _  
_ And I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out _  
_ You'd stay the hell out of my way"  _  


The accuracy of the song was almost scary, but that didn't stop Angel's already shattered heart from breaking even further. He'd hurt everyone he cared about, but now he thought about it, he'd probably hurt Lorne the most.   


_ "I am drowning _  
_ There is no sign of land _  
_ You are coming down with me _  
_ Hand in unlovable hand"  _  


And as the words set in, it felt like his heart was being ground to dust. As the song finished, a phrase from a man he used to hate, until he realised how similar they were, played in his head.   


You always hurt the one you love.

Just as he was about to eject the CD and try his best to drink his sorrows away, Angel heard a tinny voice.   
" _...I'm sorry, Angel-heart. I'm sorry I could never say anything to your face. And I'm sorry that I'm never coming back. But my next verse of the song isn't with you, no matter how much I always wished it would be."  _ There was a heavy sigh that filled the room with static.

_ "Goodbye, lover-boy."  _ A quiet  _ click  _ said that the recording was over.

Spike, as usual, was the first in, door slamming behind him as he ran in from the sun. The little adrenalin rush woke him up in the morning. "Heya, Peaches! Any new cases today…Peaches?" Unexpectedly, he couldn't see Angel anywhere in the lobby. There was no heartbeat to use to locate him, so Spike jogged up the stairs and made a beeline to the bedroom. It was usually where Angel could be found whenever he wasn't working already. Must've pulled an all-nighter looking up how to do some more good. Or at least, that's what Spike thought until he tuned into his sense of smell. 

Whiskey, strong. Dust. Slightly salty, with a hint of something familiar that smelt slightly like grapefruit. And…he could hear deep, even breath. Even after centuries, the ponce still breathed in his sleep. With that new information, he peered round the door. 

Angel was, as he'd expected, fast asleep. He could see the shine of dried tears on his face. That must be the salt. The whiskey was almost empty, and the glass next to it completely dry. There was a CD spinning, long since finished, in the player, and another lying open. Held tight in Angel's hand, close to his face, was a bright patterned piece of fabric. Spike inhaled deeply, and identified it as the source of the grapefruit-like scent. Bright colour, CDs, all of this rang a bell that he couldn't quite hear yet. 

A  _ click _ , and an angry piano tone he recognised began playing by itself. Chocolate brown eyes snapped open, and Spike could hear the metaphorical bell. Angel rushed to turn off the player and put the CD back in its case, glaring at Spike like a caged animal, the fabric that Spike now recognised as a pocket square still in his hand. "Wh-why are you here?" 

"9am, Peaches, but if I'm not welcome I can go straight back downstairs." Angel looked confused at the sombre tone in his voice. "No. It's fine. Why would you, anyway?" 

"Oh, 'cause you're playing Lorne's tape on repeat, drinking yourself to oblivion, cryin' like a baby, and you've found an old thing of his because it still smells like him?" 

The confused/annoyed/heartbroken expression on Angel's face told Spike that he'd hit the bullseye. He stopped trying to hide how scratchy his voice was. "...how?"

Spike counted off the reasons on his fingers."I can smell the alcohol and the pocket square. The tears are still on your face. And," his voice took on the much softer tone it had sometimes ",I heard that when it was recorded. The end of it, anyway. I was the only one he knew'd let him go, and it had to get back to you somehow. He…he loved you, didn't he?"

"I loved him too." Angel sounded utterly defeated. "But we always hurt the ones we love, don't we?" 

Spike was painfully familiar with the feeling of knowing you'd never be the man that the person you loved deserved. From experience, it hurt more than the soul ever did. He walked over to where Angel was still standing, and gave him a single, awkward pat on the shoulder. "...Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Want to beat up a punching bag to stop us from having a mutual mope-athon?" 

"...Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, if you enjoyed kudos/comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
